Obsidian & Blood

SEVENTEEN

The Coward's Way Out

When we arrived at the palace, I immediately felt the sense of wrongness. It wasn't the hushed quiet – which by now had become the norm – or the atmosphere of reverent fear, which suggested the sickness had propagated yet further. Rather, it was the sense of purpose: people were still hurrying through the courtyards and the corridors, but they were mostly going in one direction, and their faces were grim.

"Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca started, but I shook my head. Whatever was going on, we'd find out soon enough. The flow of people was going towards the quarters of the Revered Speaker, though that particular courtyard appeared much the same as ever. We followed a stream of minor noblemen in cotton clothes to a smaller courtyard decorated with rich frescoes and elaborate carvings. The smell of pine needles hung in the air, but even from where we stood – pressed in a crowd of noblemen, warriors and officials – Ichtaca and I felt it. The passage of Xolotl, Taker of the Dead, always left a particular trace in the air.

The crowd was thickest on the pyramid shrine at the centre of the courtyard. Without needing to glance at each other, Ichtaca and I sliced at our earlobes, and whispered an invocation to Lord Death, feeling the keening cold of the underworld spread over us like a mantle: the sharp touch of the Wind of Knives as He flayed the soul, the fear that seized the heart on hearing the howl of the beast of shadows; the dry, cold touch of Lord Death's skeletal hands. The crowd parted before us like a flock of quails, and we climbed the staircase easily, stopping, for a brief moment, at the entrance to the inner chambers before the black-clad guards of the SheSnake decided we were entitled to be there, and waved us in with a wave of their hands.

Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, both because of the sheer number of people packed into such a small space, and because I could feel the death – taste it on my tongue like some rotten fruit, like something stuck across my windpipe, all but choking the life out of me.

I'd never seen that – not at any death scene I'd attended, no matter how protracted or painful the agony had been. Beside me, I felt Ichtaca pause, his gaze roaming left and right, trying to understand what had happened. If I joined him and we pooled our forces, it would be child's play to work it out – to see what was fundamentally wrong, grating at me like a missing limb…

No. I was High Priest, and my place wasn't at the back, but further ahead in the press, where the most important men would be in attendance.

The people gathered around the reed mat were familiar: Tizoctzin and his sycophant, Quenami; the She-Snake, and the familiar, coolly relaxed countenance of Nezahual-tzin – in addition to several warriors who served as escorts, and two frightened slaves who were doing their best to look innocuous.

In fact, it almost looked like the last time, save that the man in the centre – Pochtic – looked quite past any kind of help. Death had relaxed the muscles, so that the small obsidian dagger in his hand now lay half-across the stones of the floor. Like Acamapichtli, he'd used it to brutal efficiency – not slashing across his wrists, but digging deep inside to reach the arteries. The blood had spurted in great gouts, staining the floor underneath, but I could feel no magic, no latent power within. Either he'd offered it to a god as he died – which would have been odd, as he'd stated quite clearly the god he worshipped was Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, a god of war who preferred human hearts as sacrificial offerings, and not something as cowardly as the slitting of wrists. Or…

Or something else had been wrong with him. He could already have pledged himself as a sacrifice, been a dead man walking, like the council two months ago – a sacrifice in abeyance, payment for a task already performed.

One thing was sure: his death wasn't making our Revered Speaker any happier. "I want to know who did this." Tizoc-tzin's face was livid. "I want them arrested, and punished – wood or stone, it wouldn't matter. I want them gone."

The wood of executioners' maces, the stones cast at adulterers and murderers.

The She-Snake was kneeling on the ground, his gaze fixed on the body. I'd expected to see Teomitl, but he still wasn't there. What in the Fifth World was he up to? Too much, I guessed. "By the looks of it, my Lord, I would say there aren't many people to punish," the She-Snake said.

"What do you mean?"

The She-Snake saw me approaching, and threw me a glance that was almost apologetic. "It was by his own hand."

There was silence. "Coward," Tizoc-tzin said, voicing what everyone thought.

I knelt by Pochtic's side, looking at the body. Neat cuts, without any flinching. I hadn't thought anyone could do that, but it certainly couldn't have happened in a fight. Nevertheless… there were ways and means to force compliance. But no, I couldn't feel any magic in the room.

No… not quite. There was something: a thin thread of brown and a reddish-yellow colour, a twin invocation to Grandmother Earth and Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun. Odd. Joint magics were so rare as to be…

Wait a moment. I stared at the face for a while, but saw nothing but the slackness of death. His earlobes, like mine, were covered in scar tissue from his many blood offerings, and there were more scars under the lip, but nothing…

Gently, I tipped the head towards me – the rigidity of Xolotl's passage hadn't yet settled in, and I managed to open the mouth. The light of braziers glimmered on the congealed saliva within the palate, but the bulk of the cavity was occupied by the tongue, which had swollen to more than twice its normal size. My fingers caught on the raised trace of a wound: it had been a single hole at one point, but repeated passages of some foreign object had enlarged the wound to a gaping hole–

Penance. And a rather extreme form. If he had been a priest, it would have been normal, but he had been a warrior and an official. Which left the other explanation.

I got up, brushing dust from my cloak, and turned around, taking in the scene. The brazier was piled with resinous wood, and the air still smelled faintly – not only of the acridity of copal incense, but also of a more unfamiliar mixture.

"He saw a calendar priest, to speak to Tlazolteotl," I said, aloud.

"To confess his cowardice." Tizoc-tzin's voice was scornful.

Nezahual-tzin – who hadn't said anything so far – looked sceptical. I felt much the same. Confession to Tlazolteotl, the Eater of Filth, served but one purpose: to void the justice of the Fifth World, by cleansing away the impurities of sin.

"There are more pressing matters. Such as conspiracies within the palace."

And the plague within the palace didn't matter, perhaps?

"My Lord…" The Sne-Snake said cautiously, like a man crossing a bridge of frayed ropes. "Nothing so far has suggested that there is a conspiracy."

"I can feel it," Tizoc-tzin hissed. "And so can he." He stabbed a finger in my direction.

Every single pair of eyes – from the She-Snake to the councilmen – turned in my direction, making me wish I could open a portal and disappear into Mictlan. "I'm not sure what you mean," I said, cautiously.

"You've been investigating. Tracking down the enemies of the Mexica Empire."

Well, lost for lost… I found my voice from the faraway place where it had fled. "Pochtic took a bribe, my Lord. So did Coatl."

There was a pause. "Ridiculous. You're mistaken, priest."

"Those are serious accusations," the She-Snake said, gravely. "But it's not the first time they have been made, which I suppose lends them some credence. Nevertheless – I fail to see what this has got to do with anything."

I had to admit he had a point – the Duality curse me if I could see what the bribe had to do with anything, either.

A tinkle of bells: the entrance-curtain was lifted by a pale hand, and, to my utter surprise, Coatl entered, leaning on a cane and looking none too steady. He was followed by two of my priests, Palli, and a younger offering priest, Matlaelel.

Ichtaca, who had been looking at the frescoes and muttering to himself – a sure sign that he had found something wrong – nodded to me when Coatl entered.

"My Lord," Coatl said, bowing to Tizoc-tzin – and then to everyone else in turn. "I was informed of what happened."

"You were sick," the She-Snake said.

Coatl nodded. "Until I was cured." He was thinner than I remembered, his rich cotton cloak hanging loose on his shoulders, his hands shaking on the cane, showing the translucent shape of bones. In fact…

I looked from Tizoc-tzin to him – pale faces, with the cast of the skull barely hidden under the stretched skin; the eyes shadowed, almost subsumed; the fingers almost too thin and sharp to be normal; leeched of colour like bleached bones.

In fact…

He looked as though he'd risen from the dead – which ought to be impossible. "What do you remember?" I asked.

"Nothing."

I continued to stare at him, until he finally gave in. "There was a dog, howling in the wilderness – if he caught me, I would be gone forever…" Every word seemed to come with difficulty, dragged from weak lungs, or a crushed throat. "And canals in sunlight, but I couldn't reach them, there was no time…" He stopped, then. "Why are you asking me this?"

I shook my head. "I need to know–"

"What we need to know is the truth." The She-Snake's voice was as cutting as broken obsidian. "Did you take a bribe, Coatl?"

"A bribe?" he sounded sincerely surprised. Either he was a better actor than I suspected, or he was telling the truth. "No. I've never taken a bribe in my life." Again, the ring of truth – an answer coming neither too quickly nor too slowly, without perceptible hesitation, or the lifeless tone of things learned by rote.

His gaze was on Pochtic – not on Tizoc-tzin or any of the other officials. "He's dead." He sounded utterly surprised. Had the healing – whatever it was – affected his memory?

"It might have something to do with Eptli's death."

"Eptli." His face darkened – in anger, in hatred? Whatever it was, it seemed to be directed at something beyond the dead warrior. "I remember Eptli. What a waste. And Pochtic–" His eyes narrowed and glimmered – one shaking hand went up to his face, wiped them clean. "This shouldn't have happened."

"We're wasting our time," the She-Snake said. He looked from Pochtic to Coatl, and then back to Tizoc-tzin. "My Lord… if there is a conspiracy against you, I very much doubt it's here."

For a moment, I thought Tizoc-tzin was going to argue, but then he shook his head. "You're right. Whatever he did, it wasn't against me. Let us go. We need to focus on more pressing matters."

He swept out of the room, followed by Quenami and the other officials.

I caught the She-Snake before he left. "Acatl," he said, His voice was courteous, suggesting, nevertheless, that I'd better have a good reason for disturbing him.

"You'll want to keep a watch on the prisoners' quarters."

"Will I?"

For a moment, I thought of warning him about Teomitl – about what might be brewing in the palace at this very moment. But my stomach heaved at the thought of betraying my student on so little evidence. There had to be a reasonable explanation for his disappearance and odd behaviour. "There is a spell in the courtyard," I said. "Written in blood over the adobe – by someone with no love for the current Mexica Empire."

"I see." He didn't argue with me, thank the Duality. "Who is casting the spell?"

"I don't know. I'm working on it."

The She-Snake grimaced. "I have far too few men as it is, with this whole business. But I'll put those I can spare on this."

I bowed. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "We both serve the same cause, Acatl. Now, was there anything else?"

I hesitated, but still the words were out of my mouth before I could call them back. "What about – Acamapichtli and the clergy of Tlaloc?"

This time, he wouldn't meet my gaze. "I don't know. Tizoc still thinks they might be guilty of something."

Of many things, probably, knowing Acamapichtli, but that was missing the point. "We need them here – serving the same cause. You know that – a priest for the war-god, a priest for the weather and the peasants…"

"And one for those who have moved on. Yes," the She-Snake said. "I know that."

The implications of the sentence were clear. "Do what you can."

"I will." He left with a nod of his head, not looking back.

The room felt much less crowded once they'd gone, leaving me free to talk to Palli. "I'm impressed you managed to heal him," I said, with a jerk of my chin towards Coatl, who still stood, looking at Pochtic's body as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening. "But what did you do, exactly?"

Palli looked nervous. "Is anything wrong?"

I was about to say he hadn't taken a good look at Coatl – until I realised that only the higher orders of the clergy knew that Tizoctzin wasn't quite a man anymore, but something else, a soul held in the body only through the favour of the gods. "Never mind," I said. "I need to know what you did."

Palli shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing wild, Acatl-tzin. Just calling on Toci's favour."

"How?"

He grimaced again. "Human sacrifice. We tried animals, but it was obvious there wasn't enough power."

"You sacrificed a life to save a life?"

"An important life." I hadn't seen Ichtaca creep up behind me – but suddenly he loomed behind me, as forbidding as a god. "I needn't remind you of who Coatl is."

Deputy for the Master of Raining Blood, member of the warcouncil – moving among the turquoise and jade, the brightest lights and most shining mirrors of the Mexica Empire. "I know. I don't care. A life for a life is wrong."

"Then what? Do you want us to kill him again? It won't regain the sacrifice's life. Besides…" Ichtaca said, "he knew what he was doing."

How could he be so high in the hierarchy of Lord Death, and fail to see the problem? "That's not the point. All lives are equal and weighed the same – separated only by the manner of their deaths." I felt like a teacher in the calmecac, repeating obvious truths to boys not old enough to have lost their childhood locks. To give one's life to the gods was the greatest sacrifice, but to do so in favour of another human being, to rank human lives by importance, like things…

Ichtaca's lips pursed. His rigid sense of hierarchy – what had caused him to put Coatl ahead in the first place – wouldn't let him contradict me, his superior. "As you wish," he said.

The Duality curse me if I let him have the last word. "It was good work," I said to Palli. "But I don't think it would make a viable cure."

He looked disconsolate, and I couldn't think of anything that would change matters. "Look into it again," I suggested. "There might be a way around the human sacrifice."

"I suppose."

I wished I could offer more – but black was black and red was red, and he shouldn't have done that. I guessed my point had come across clearly enough. "Ichtaca?"

"Yes, Acatl-tzin?" His face was smooth, expressionless.

"There is a man you need to track down – someone who came here earlier. A calendar priest."

"He will be under the seal of secrecy." He didn't say "you should know that", but it was abundantly clear.

I shook my head. Yes, the priest wouldn't be inclined to reveal the contents of the interview. But still… a drowning man couldn't afford to be choosy about which bit of driftwood to cling to. "He might still give us something to understand Pochtic. It looks as though Pochtic did the prescribed penance, and then still committed suicide." Which, to be honest, made me wonder if the offence hadn't been too grave to be forgiven – which suggested either something large, or something that went against the will of a powerful god.

"Hmm," Ichtaca was still looking at the walls – which reminded me that he'd been muttering earlier.

"Something the matter? Here, I mean."

His gaze suggested he thought more was the matter than a deserted room containing the body. "I don't think – something is odd in this room, Acatl-tzin. I can't quite pinpoint what, but…"

I sighed – assessing my meagre resources. "Palli, can you see about tracking down the calendar priest?"

Palli pulled himself straight, almost to attention. "Yes, Acatl-tzin!"

I could feel Ichtaca's discontent as I moved into the room, leaning on my cane – Storm Lord's lightning strike me, I was looking the same as Coatl, though perhaps not quite so battered.

Coatl still stood where we'd left him, looking down at Pochtic's body. His eyes, dark and shadowed, were all but unmoving, his gaze expressionless. But tears had run down his cheeks, staining the black face-paint. "That's not how it happens." His voice, too, was expressionless – too carefully controlled.

"How it happens?" I asked.

"We die in wars," he snapped. "Caught by spears and cut by obsidian, our souls taking wing on the courage of eagles, the ferocity of jaguars. We don't–" His hand rose towards Pochtic, faltered. "We don't just end it like this."

"No," I said, at last. "I know it's not much, but I'm sorry you had to see this."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. You can't erase the memory of it, anyway. Was there anything else, Acatl-tzin?"

I bowed my head, as gravely as I could. "Yes. I apologise for bringing this up" we both knew I wasn't sorry, not by a large margin "but I need to know what you can remember about the sickness."

The tremor in his hands was barely visible. "Not much. I – I couldn't breathe – as if I were in water or mud. And there were… bodies." He inhaled, sharply. "Dozens and dozens of bodies, all burning with fever. I've walked battlefields, but this was–"

"Different."

"Yes." Gently, he knelt by Pochtic's body, his fingers probing the wound that had slashed the arteries. "That's all there is."

"I see." It was consistent with my own symptoms – with Teomitl's. And all consistent with Jade Skirt's involvement – water or mud, and the sensation of choking. But it was nothing new, though.

"And Pochtic?" I asked.

"I thought I knew Pochtic." His gaze was distant. "Obviously, I didn't."

"So you don't know why he might have committed suicide." I was only stating the obvious there, in the hopes that it might help.

"No," Coatl said. He rose, picked up his caneagain – his breath fast, laboured. "He was a man who enjoyed life. Too much, perhaps. I don't think he understood what lay beneath as well as some."

"You mean?"

"He knew it was for the glory of the gods, for the Fifth Sun and Grandmother Earth. But I think, all too often, he saw his own glory first." He sighed, again, as if he were a calendar priest, closing the divination books on Pochtic's life. "Ah well. It doesn't matter, now. Never will again."

Suicides, like the rest of the unglorious dead, went to Mictlan. Given enough time, we could summon the dead man's soul, find out what he had known.

I suspected we didn't have that kind of time.

"If you didn't take a bribe…" I said, slowly.

He looked up, with a brief spark of anger in his eyes – nothing unnatural or false there. He may have been acting, but I'd interviewed him earlier and had seen that, while he might have many talents, subtle acting wasn't among them. "How many times will I need to tell you I didn't?"

"It's not that," I said, throwing up both hands like a shield. "My point is that someone still accused you of taking it."

"Who?"

Judging by the gleam in his eyes, I wasn't sure I ought to tell him. But still, he'd find it easily enough. "A sacred courtesan, Xiloxoch. And it looks like several of you were approached with this. By Eptli."

"Eptli." Coatl's voice was bitter. "He's been a worse companion dead than alive, I have to say."

I had to agree there. "And you don't remember this, either?"

Coatl shrugged. "I know what you want." For the first time, there was anger in his gaze. "Eptli was one of my men, and whether he's dead or not, I won't see his name being soiled by chaff and straw. If I have nothing to say against him, I won't invent calumnies."

"Look," I said. He'd just been healed from the sickness, and he couldn't possibly have understood how everything had gone wrong. "Chipahua and his household are dead. The Master of the House of Darts has vanished. We have further warriors with the illness, and someone has been writing threats against the Mexica Empire in the prisoners' quarters." Gods, put like that, it became rather overwhelming.

"And you see me sorry for it," Coatl said, "but there is nothing much I can do to help you."

I could recognise obstruction when I saw it. "Fine," I said, stifling a sigh. "If you can think of anything that would shed light on those matters, keep me in mind."

"Of course," he said, but we both knew he was lying.